


Sit on my face (and let my lips embrace you)

by Anonymous



Series: The Chronicles of Barbatius [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Cunnilingus, Exactly what the title says, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, RIP platonic friendship, zero plot mostly smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Sit on my face.”“What?”As it happens, he has completely forgotten about himself or that he has company. It happens quite often when he is in the zone.“What did you just say?”He swallows, hard. He could play this off as a stupid joke. Years of being friends with her, years of sheltering a crush, he can do this. At this point, he is a pro.“I– I was just mumbling. It’s gibberish.”But Clarke has none of it. She pushes her sketchbook away and lets her pencils scattering everywhere on the carpet, pushes herself up to sit up, drawing a foot under herself and narrowing her eyes on him.“No. I’m pretty sure I heard you say something and I want you to repeat it.”





	Sit on my face (and let my lips embrace you)

**Author's Note:**

> Salute to the trope "Character A writes erotica and Character B catches them", or something like that.

Bellamy doesn’t remember how he got into written erotica, but he did; first as a reader and avid commenter, before trying writing some himself. He thinks of his works as historical fantasy: his stories taking place in the ancient world of the Caesars and gladiators and myths, which he still considers a niche universe in erotica.

Later, writing became an escape of sorts.

Now, a year and a half and a hundred followers later, his writing and writing style has improved considerably and quite honestly, when you love doing what you do and you think you’re good at it, it is hard to stop. The thrill of creation and all that.

 _The Chronicles of Barbatius (34/?)_ is proof of that.

His muses are extra gracious to him lately, probably it has to do with the fact that he is in love. (It’s a sappy story, really, his love is unrequited.)

To this date, he likes to mouth the words his lead gladiator, Barbatius would say before going into the arena, sword or spear in hand, quite often not much else, all pumped up for the fight. Or afterwards, when having defeated his opponents without any major injury and he is giving a victory speech for the cheering crowd. Or much later, when he is in the confines of his chambers, treated _with love_ in whatever small way - sexual favours included.

Bellamy is a true believer that part of being a dedicated writer also means on occasion tasting the words in his mouth, and see to himself if they feel right when said out loud.

Like –

 _What brings you_ _back_ _to my chambers, Princess?_ _It’s been only a few hours—_

Or –

_Will you be a good girl for me and—yeah—yeah—just like that._

And –

 _Don’t forget_ **_you_ ** _came to me. This is my chambers. My bed. My rules. I can do whatever the hell I want._

His friends don’t know about his hobby. They assume he’s grading papers or playing Solitaire online when he is on his laptop, and he never felt the need to correct them and let them in on this part of his life.

( **augustuswhispers84** is his and only his.)

The words are out without a second thought.

“Sit on my face.”

“What?”

As it happens, he has completely forgotten about himself or that he has company. It happens quite often when he is _in the zone_.

In his defence, he doesn’t write his stories often or at all with his friends being around. Quite the opposite. He consciously doesn’t write erotica when any of his friends are over, but sometimes—like today—you cannot control when inspiration strikes, can you? You have to embrace it.

An hour later, and he has completely forgotten that Clarke was spending the afternoon with him, or that she is currently lying on her stomach on _his floor_ , in _his living room_ , doodling idly. In some sinfully tiny shorts and fitting tiny top to tease him endlessly, but well—it’s not like she knows the full effect she has on him.

And, he is in the zone—and when he is there, he completely forgets about time and space and everything, including his blabbermouth.

And oh boy, is he in the zone. (He was in the middle of writing the intro to a steamy scene when Clarke showed up on his doorstep.)

Hence the slip. _Sit on my face._

He looks at her, mortified, her eyes are on him, as wide as saucers. “What—did you just say?”

He swallows, hard.

He could play this off as a stupid joke. Years of being friends with her, years of sheltering a crush, he can do this. At this point, he is a pro.

“I—I was just mumbling. It’s gibberish.”

But Clarke has none of it. She pushes her sketchbook away and lets her pencils scattering everywhere on the carpet, pushes herself up to sit up, drawing a foot under herself and narrowing her eyes on him.

God, she is so stubborn.

He loves it.

“No. I’m pretty sure I heard you say something and I want you to repeat it.”

 _I dare you._ She doesn’t say it, but as much is implied in the heated look she is giving him.

“Clarke, it’s— “

“— _because_ , if you meant what I think you said—“

“What if I did?” He blurts out. His face is positively heating up, but fuck it. YOLO. The thought of Clarke knowing his dirty little secret makes him hot and buzzing all over from head to toe. And if he has to masturbate when she leaves, he will. (Maybe sooner, if he is desperate.)

But then Clarke smirks at him, mouth tilting up in a mischievous way he always imagines his leading lady, Caecia—the Princess of Arkadia and daughter of Julius, the Caesar of Arkadia—smiles coyly when she sneaks into Barbatius’ chambers and seeks him out under the pretences for tending his wounds for a second time—which almost always leads to an uncontrollable bout of sex.

The wait is rather torturous. Finally, Clarke says, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

He sucks in a quick breath, his dick instantly jumping to attention, and he can feel himself getting half-hard. He sets down his laptop.

She sits up completely and shimmies out of her shorts, dragging her panties along with them without batting an eye. He watches her, intently, as she kicks the offending material away, and for the first time, Bellamy gets a glimpse of her perfect cunt.

She doesn’t stop there. _No_.

She lifts her arms and raises her top over her head and tosses it to the floor. It’s one of those tops with a built-in bra and there she is, utterly naked before him. Bellamy watches her, barely breathing. His gaze travels to her breast, her nipples are dark pink and peaking and perfect, to her stomach, to between her thighs. Clarke bends a leg, shifts it to the side, a silent invitation. The blue of her eyes almost non-existent.

_Holy mother and Jesus._

Bellamy growls. He slowly meets her gaze again.

“You’re fucking gorgeous.”

She lifts an eyebrow in question. _What are you gonna do about it?_

The very real prospect of licking her cunt does things to him. He is a predator—a wolf on a hunt, smelling blood. He wants it bad.

“I said,” he growls, “Sit. On. My. Face. _Clarke_.”

His dick twitches in agreement.

She fucking crawls to him and up the couch, onto his lap.

His palms are rubbing her back up and down, thumbs gently stroking the sides of her breasts, grazing the nipples—the goosebumps on her skin a telltale sign of her arousal.

“ _Bell_ ,” her breath is hot on his skin, she licks a stripe up his neck.” You have to scoot down for this to work.”

He nods and shifts, his palms are a hot and steadying presence on her hips, guiding her movements along with his. She is on her knees, moving in sync with him until his legs are dangling off the other end of the couch and his head hits the place where he’s been sitting. Clarke and her cunt is a breath away from his mouth. He is already salivating after her. He runs his nose along her slit, the tip of it bumping against her clit. Once. _Twice_. He blows hot air in her cunt, testing, teasing, and he smiles to himself when he feels a shudder run through her, and she mewls.

His hands move from her hips to fondle her breast before gliding down, right there where he aches to touch and taste her and thumbs her open. She is so wet, he can practically smell it. He has to get his mouth on her or else—

“Is it weird that I’m licking your cunt before kissing you? Like, actually kissing you?”

He grins up at her, rubbing circles around her clit, catching the hood with a finger, and worrying the nub with his thumb.

He’s never felt this hungry for anyone in all his life.

“ _B— Bellamy_.”

A broken moan.

“Don’t make me kick you. Lick. Me. Clean.”

Fuck. _Yeah_. He can do that. Yeah, every cell in his body agrees to do that.

He lifts his chin and lets his tongue swipe along her slit, savouring the first taste of her, very slowly. He’s paying special attention to her hardened nub, proceeding with tiny fluttering licks with the tip of his tongue.

Clarke’s hands move from his shoulders into his hair, fingers gripping at the roots—and fuck if he doesn’t like the pain.

Bellamy dives up and in again, slipping his tongue deeper, alternating between slow and quick and demanding.

Clarke growls, and mewls and grips his hair tighter, moving her hips, encouraging him to go for it and devour her.

He drowns in her taste.

His chin is getting wetter by the second, her wetness slowly trickling down his neck, despite his best effort to lick it all up and swallow and savour everything she gives him.

Her pants are becoming quicker, the greedier he gets, and he lifts his ass up and off the couch in desperation, trying to find some friction for himself. He hopes they won’t stop here once she has come once; he wants more than anything to fill her up and make her come again (and again)—ideally, at least once on his dick. The thought alone of getting his cock involved, here, with her, is making his movements erratic, he’s becoming more vigorous with his tongue; he needs to feel her come. _Desperately_. More than he needs air to breathe.

His palms move up and down her thighs, to her breasts, gripping and stroking her soft skin in a soothing and encouraging motion.

“ _Bellamy_ , I’m so close,” she whimpers.

“ _Clarke,_ you taste exquisite. “His voice is more gravelly than he has ever heard it before. “I knew you would. I could do this to you for hours.” Tongue swipes to the right and left. “You, on top of me—“ Up and down. “—My tongue lapping at your entrance until you cannot take it anymore.” Up and down. “And when your hungry little cunt is aching and desperate—“ A bite. “ —for clenching on something and you are crying my name to give you my fingers or my tongue or anything —” An open-mouthed hungry kiss on her clit. “I will bury my tongue so deep —“

“—You talk too much,” she pants, pulling his head closer to where she wants it.

He grins and increases the pressure; teeth biting the hood, the nub, leaving kisses to soothe the bite and nibbling on her labia, before swiping the flat of his tongue along her slit once more then in quick fluttering licks around her clit, thumb rubbing up and down against her entrance. When he feels another round of her wetness trickling out, he is easing first one finger, then two through her folds and catches her clit between his lips until her breathing is becoming ragged and the movements of her hips feel involuntarily bucking but slowing down. Soon, he can feel her cunt fluttering around him and just as he promised, he buries his tongue into her pussy as deep as he can reach with the tip before she is coming hard, clenching around him, shuddering, and coming and coming.

He is painfully hard. And yet—yet stupidly satisfied at the same time, more than pleased with himself. Clarke’s undoing is all him and his wickedly talented mouth. And, although this is not a competition whatsoever, he definitely put Barbatius to shame.

###

“So, what was that about?” Lifting her head from his chest, she nods towards his abandoned laptop.

He tells her everything.

As he talks, she absentmindedly walks her fingers up his chest, slow and playful, squishing her warm breasts tighter against his skin.

“Will you let me read it?” She asks all perked up and excited.

He blinks rapidly. His heart is pounding.

The prospect of Clarke reading _The Chronicles of Barbatius_ , more precisely, about Barbatius and his rather explicit dalliances with Caecia is exciting, but. Thirty-four and a half chapters in—what if his writing is not good enough.

She must notice his hesitation because she quickly adds, “Or don’t. It’s personal, I understand.”

An agonizing few seconds pass in silence.

Then, “But if you do,” she says, sounding unusually timid, “we could play out any scene you want.”

He doesn’t know how to breathe. He looks at her. Scratch that. He stares at her in shock and admiration.

“Jesus, you mean it.”

She nods.

“I do. But first things first—“ and she plants a small, sweet kiss on his lips, holding his gaze before leaning in again and it is enough encouragement for him to follow her lead. This time he takes charge in kissing her back. It’s deep and wet and pure heaven. Finally.

He pulls away, touching their foreheads together, finding a small relief until they can catch their breath.

“For the record, making out with my pussy lips is a kiss regardless. And as first kisses go, it was a pretty awesome one.” She giggles. “Orgasmic too.”

His answering smile is stretching his face to its limits; it almost hurts.

“I almost bust my load in my pants,” he confesses. “Like some fumbling _teenager,”_ he says ‘teenager’ with a bite _._

Clarke lifts her head and smiles at him in a calculating, devilish way, kissing him sweetly on the lips first, then his neck.

“How about we take care of that, _huh_?” She swings her legs over his body so that she is facing him upside down, her cunt is yet again _right there_ , inches away from his face, and she is already halfway through shoving his pants down his crotch, eager,  just enough to free his cock. Bellamy is stunned. Before he can recover, her hands are massaging his balls, her lips nipping and licking up and down his shaft before closing around the uncut head.

He whimpers but kisses her cunt eagerly in retaliation, determined not to hold anything back.

“Clarke—I wanna fuck you.”

“Good, _Bellll—_ ,” she pants,“ I want you to.”

Sweet Jesus. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He makes an extra effort to thumb her open wider than before, the reversed position letting him go deeper and bring her to the edge that much harder he hopes.

But he is panting as well, her lips and tongue and hot breath doing wonders to him, and he is pretty sure he will get to completion sooner than her. He panics. He can’t have that, he can’t.

Her grip at the base of his cock tightens, as she hollows her cheeks, pressing her pussy closer into him, her hips moving up and down, torturous and enticing. And that’s it, he is so—so close to snap. He yelps in surprise and tries to manoeuvre his dick free from her mouth. It’s too good. He won’t last.

They haven’t talked about him letting go completely, releasing right into her mouth, but Clarke is apparently exactly like Caecia, which goes beyond being a busty blonde with sky blue eyes and rock solid determination. He didn’t consciously write the character after her—he definitely didn’t plan on it, but as Caecia in his stories, Clarke takes him deep into her mouth and doesn’t let up until he swells—loses any control he has left and he is spilling into her and down her throat, until he feels empty.

He owes her amazing orgasms after this. So he focuses all his remaining energy by silently reciting the half-written sex scene between Barbatius and Caecia, and he mouths the words into her, a relentless symphony of tongue and teeth until she cries out and topples over the edge; her body a comforting weight on top of his own.

A little while later, her whole body shakes from giggles.

“I love this couch. But Bell,” her throat still winded and croaky from the exertion. “I want you to fuck me in your bed. Or, against the wall. I’m not picky. Or —“

“— _both_.” He answers with a grin. “Both it is.”

He exhales. ”I only need a minute or two to recover.”

It’s a promise.

 

#


End file.
